Going to the Valley of Angels
by FraidyCat
Summary: Charlie has to face his past before he can have a future. Probably no plot, FBIwise. Don't look for one.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Going to the Valley of Angels**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. They are close personal friends.**

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**Chapter 1**

He stood uncertainly and looked around. He had no idea how he had gotten here…but it was nice. He felt warm, and the last thing he remembered feeling was cold; freezing, in fact — so that was an improvement. It was also beautiful. He appeared to be in the middle of a meadow, a lush oasis surrounded on all sides by thick, spiraling evergreens. Was this in California? He wondered how he and Larry had never found this place on one of their hikes, if it was.

He sank down to rest in the tall grass, sitting cross-legged. He watched a butterfly flit in lazy, disjointed circles for a while, then tilted his head back to look at the deep, blue sky. A cloud floated across his field of vision, and he closed his eyes. He felt the sun on his face, and his body grew heavy. So, he allowed himself to sink the rest of the way down. He lay on his back and stretched his legs out vertically, his arms out horizontally. Eyes still closed, he moved his limbs lazily, making angels in the grass.

He did that until he heard a familiar tinkle of laughter, followed by a voice he knew better than his own. "You always did love doing that, Charlie. Every time we traveled anywhere there was snow in the winter, you couldn't wait to flop on your back in it and make angels."

His eyes popped open and he sat up with a jerk. His mother sat in the grass near him, and he felt the air leave his lungs. "Mom?", he gasped, reaching out a hand toward her.

She rose to her knees and leaned over to take him in her arms. She was warm, and soft, and memory, and he felt her breathing in his hair as he clutched at her. He tightened his hold and began to sob, and she soothed him, as she always had. "Shhh, baby, don't cry. It's all right." She spoke such things lowly and calmly, until he was able to disentangle himself from her and sit back in the grass. She brushed tears off his cheek, smiling, and then did the same herself, settling into the earth a little.

They stared at each other.

"Mom?", Charlie finally said again.

She understood that the single word contained a myriad of questions. "Don't get used to it, sweetheart. You can't stay."

Unconsciously, he adopted the wounded look that had always gotten him what he wanted. "Why not?", he sulked.

She smiled again. "It's a visit. Special dispensation." The smile became a frown. "Your heart has been so heavy, son. We can feel it, here. We thought this might help you."

He ran a hand through his curls. "I'll feel better if I can stay here, with you."

"You'll feel better if you have the answer. You never could live without answers."

Charlie looked at her, confused. "Answer? To what?"

She tilted her head. "To the question, of course."

"What question?" His voice was plaintive, but she continued to regard him solemnly.

"Charlie. Quit stalling."

He looked away, trying to find the butterfly again. When he spoke, it surprised him. He hadn't been intending to, and he didn't even know what he was saying. He listened as an interested guest to his own voice. "Dad says you understood. About the end." He looked back at her fearfully. "Did you?"

"Ah." She tilted her own face into the sun for a moment and then looked at him once more, eyes bright. "You are my heart," she answered. "How could I not understand?" He didn't answer, but held her gaze, mesmerized by her bright eyes. "Truthfully, Charlie? It made it easier for me. I couldn't bear your pain. My own?" She shrugged, flitted a hand. "Nothing. That I could handle." A slow smile started again, and her face flushed with pride. "But oh, sweet Charlie…I see how far you've come, since then. In the beginning, I blamed myself. I protected you from life, and I made your father do it, too. I wanted you to be free to pursue your genius…." She closed her eyes and sighed a little, tracing her fingers along his arm. "I've learned there is no solution in blame." She opened her eyes again and regarded him intently, seriously. "That is what I have to tell you. Oh, son, what I have seen in you since I had to leave. I know you've struggled. But that struggle has brought you strength, and love. You can have even more. Just make room for it in your heart."

His voice was small. He wasn't really sure if he spoke, or just thought the word. "How?"

"Forgive yourself. You can't really move on until you do — you'll keep coming back here."

"Good," he said, petulantly. "I like it here. I like it with you."

She reached out and caressed his cheek briefly, and he leaned into her touch. "We'll be together soon enough," she whispered. "I'll save your place."

Before Charlie's eyes, she began to fade, and he started to panic. He spoke rapidly, a rush of words. "Don't go. Mom, don't go. Please."

He could barely see her smile, now, hardly hear her words. "Dearest. I'm not going anywhere. You are."

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He blinked.

Charlie blinked, and she was gone. He cursed himself, desperate to get her back. She had come while he was making angels in the grass, so he threw himself backwards, squeezed his eyes shut and started again. He could make her come back, if the angels were beautiful enough. He tried to concentrate on the movements of his arms and legs, but they did not brush easily through warm grass as they had before. Rather, something pushed against his arms, and held his legs down, and he knew, he knew, that he was loosing her forever.

"Easy, Charlie, easy. The ambulance is on its way. Take it easy, Buddy."

He opened his eyes. Not slowly, as if he had been sleeping. Not painfully, as if something hurt. Not by centimeters, as if the room were too bright. All at once, wide and wild, and focusing immediately on Don's face leaning over him. "What?", he said, eyes searching his brother's. "Where?" Charlie felt a squeeze through his bicep and he understood that Don was holding him down. "Why?", he added.

Don's eyes were frightened; concerned; determined. "Because you just flew across the hall and bounced off the wall unconscious, that's why. Stop fighting us, okay?"

"Where?", Charlie asked again, as he slowly gave up on making angels. He felt someone let go of his legs, and his father's terrified face appeared before him.

Alan put a shaking hand on Charlie's forehead. "At home, son. You were trying to fix the furnace."

Don suddenly split into two people. Both of them were pale. He still gripped Charlie's arm, even though Charlie wasn't fighting, anymore. Charlie swallowed, and picked a brother to focus on."No. Not 'where am I'. Where is she?"

Don's eyes added confusion to the mix, and he exchanged a look with one of Charlie's fathers – there were suddenly two of them, also. Don looked back at Charlie. "It's just us, Buddy. The three of us…God, Charlie, I'm so sorry. I complained that the heat wouldn't come up again, but I didn't think you'd take a screwdriver to the unit without cutting the power, first…"

That suddenly, Charlie was made aware of two things: a throbbing, insistent pain in his head; and an aching, gaping hole in his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Don really had been cold. The weather had turned, and he had been cold all afternoon. He had headed for Charlie's after work hoping for a hot meal and a warm house. When he had only gotten one of those things, he had huddled miserably on the couch, trying to watch a game with his father, and begun a near-constant harassment of Charlie, who was bent over a stack of papers at the dining room table. Alan had given Don free reign to say what he wanted, which told Don that Charlie's inattention to household details was probably getting to his father, as well. When Don had whined, during a commercial, "Geez, Chuck, if you're not going to get the furnace fixed, at least go get me a sweatshirt or something!", his brother had grunted, pushed back from the table and thrown a red pen into the middle of the papers.

Don and Alan had exchanged grins when Charlie had stormed out to the garage and come back with a tool box. They had heard the panel of the furnace come off in the alcove under the stairs, and Alan raised his hand to his mouth as if to still his own amusement when bitten-off curses and assorted bangs drifted toward them. Don didn't want to laugh out loud, so he looked away from his father, toward the source of his entertainment – just in time for a small explosion to knock him off the couch, more in terror that actual physical impact. As he was scrambling to regain his own balance, he saw Charlie fly backwards out of the alcove, feet not even touching the floor, and slam into the wall. Before Don could react, Charlie was sliding down it to slump, unconscious, at its base. Don urged his feet to move, just as a second, smaller explosion sent a gust of air out of the alcove and seemed to knock Charlie over so that he wasn't even sitting against the wall anymore, but lying in front of it.

Remembering the sight now, sitting in the trauma waiting area next to his father, Don shivered again. Their response had been almost choreographed. Alan had bolted for the laundry room off the kitchen, headed for the control panel of circuit breakers. Don had gone to Charlie, felt for and blessedly found a steady pulse, and had watched his unconscious brother breathe while he frantically pulled his cell off his belt and dialed 9-1-1. Alan was back beside him by the time Charlie had started thrashing around, and it took both of them to hold him down so he wouldn't do himself further damage.

"Still cold, son?" Don pulled his thoughts back to the present. He wasn't sure how long his father had been talking to him.

He shook his head. "I'm okay. What's taking so long?"

Alan started to shake his head, then stiffened. "Here," he said simply, and Don jerked his head up to see a set of scrubs coming toward them.

He and Alan both stood, nervous, and the scrubs focused into the calm face of a middle-aged man who extended a hand toward Alan.

"Dr. Resner, Trauma," he said, shaking Alan's hand briefly and then moving on to Don. "I understand you're here with Charles Eppes?"

Don shook his hand firmly, so that the doctor knew he could take him, then dropped his hand to clutch it into a fist at his side. "Charlie," he said. "Charlie Eppes. Is he all right? He was conscious before the ambulance arrived."

The doctor nodded and smiled. "Yes, I heard. That's good, that he wasn't out very long. He's still conscious, and a little more alert than he was sounding when he first got here."

Alan expelled a breath he had been holding, and the doctor looked at him. "He's very, very, lucky, from what I've heard. He easily could have been electrocuted. As it is, he's suffering only a concussion, a small, first-degree burn on his right hand and several bruises, which I'm sure he'll spend the next several days finding."

Don was reluctant to believe. "You're sure? He had…tests, and stuff?" He felt like an idiot.

The doctor looked at him again, and smiled. "Yes. A CT scan, which was clear. His verbal responses were evaluated by our neurological intern for appropriateness, as well. His major complaints right now are a headache and dizziness; although I suspect he will be sore in the morning."

"Will you release him?", Alan asked.

The doctor seemed to hesitate. "Any loss of consciousness is considered a Grade 3 concussion, and we like to do overnight observations with those. How long would you estimate he was out, again?"

Don thought. Dad had gotten to the circuit breaker and back, and then Charlie had thrashed for a while still unconscious…he had come to asking one word questions just before the ambulance arrived. "Less than five minutes?" he guessed, looking at his father, who shrugged, then nodded.

The doctor pursed his lips, seemed to think for a moment. "Tell you what," he finally said. "Let's keep him here in the ER for about three more hours before we start the paperwork. You can sit with him, if you'd like. You'll see the kind of neuro checks our nurses make — checking his pupils, asking him questions, checking his temperature. Once you get him home, you can continue to do that for the next 20 hours or so. Expect some nausea to set in soon — but anything extreme, or a spike in his temp, and you need to bring him back here right away. Otherwise, he should follow-up with his own physician in a few days." He turned slightly to head back down the corridor. "You can come with me now, if you'd like."

Alan and Don did not have to be asked twice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Don pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen into the dining room and stopped abruptly. Charlie was not sleeping on the couch, where he had left him just a few minutes ago to go and start a pot of coffee. Rather, he was standing just in front of the large, picture window of the living room. His arms were wrapped around his torso and he was staring outside in a way that told Don he wasn't really seeing anything.

He started toward his brother and called softly, trying not to wake his father, asleep in the recliner. "Charlie? You okay?" There was no response, so when Don was close enough he touched Charlie's shoulder and tried again. "Charlie?"

The mathematician started and jerked, immediately grimacing and tightening his arms around his middle. "Ouch…"

Don tried to steer him back toward the couch. "Come on, lie back down for a while." As Charlie moved slowly to comply, Don frowned. "I still think you should be upstairs in your own bed. I'll help, it if hurts too much tackling the stairs."

"The couch is fine," Charlie answered quietly. A whoosh of air escaped him as he allowed Don to help him lower his uncooperative body down. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes while Don hovered anxiously over him.

Alan snorted, waking himself up. "What's going on?", he asked, fuzzily, fighting his way to his feet and looking toward his sons. "Is everything all right?"

Don shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The house was really cold, now that the furnace was completely out of commission. "We need to get some space heaters," he said, thinking out loud. He looked back at Charlie's pale face. "At least put the blanket back over you to keep warm."

Charlie wearily raised his head. "I'm fine," he said, in a voice too weak to please either man who was listening.

Alan rubbed his hand over his face. "I smell coffee. How about if I make us all some breakfast to go with that? Charlie? Do you think you could eat something?"

The pale face took on a decidedly green tint. "No," he said, without hesitation. Charlie thought about it another second and became even greener. "You're going to cook things?"

Alan looked at him, a little confused. "Yes. I thought I might make oatmeal…or, Donnie? Scrambled eggs?"

Charlie groaned and moved toward the edge of the couch. "I think maybe you're right about going upstairs," he said in defeat to his brother.

Don helped him carefully rise, grateful that the thought of smelling cooking food was at least finally driving Charlie to bed. "So what day is it, Chuck?", he asked, guiding Charlie by the elbow toward the stairs.

Charlie made a face Don couldn't see, since he was slightly behind him. "Saturday. 2006. George W. Bush. 31. I blew myself up. Dad wants me to cut my hair. You work for the FBI. You leap tall buildings in a single bound. Anything else?"

They had taken a few steps, and paused so Charlie could catch his breath. Don smiled. "As long as you remember that last part, I'm good."

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The space heater banged against the door of Charlie's room two hours later, and Don winced. He had hoped to set this up without waking Charlie. He continued to push the door open and looked toward the bed — completely missing the pile of books in his path. As he felt himself stumbling forward, and heard his own exclamation of surprise, Don had just enough time to figure out that his was going to be ugly. He windmilled with his free arm, hit something solid and warm that made a noise when he did it, and suddenly stopped.

"Damn," he heard Charlie hiss. "How much do you weigh these days?"

Don dropped the heater the few inches that remained for it to hit the floor, hoping it didn't break. He had to use both hands to claw his way up Charlie's chest until he was standing straight again. He pushed himself back as soon as he could, looking down at the books to make sure his feet were safe this time. "I don't know if I should thank you or yell at you for booby-trapping this place," he started, but stopped when he looked back at Charlie and saw him clutching his t-shirt over his heart.

"I think that hurt," Charlie whispered, and Don felt terrible.

"You should have let me fall."

"With that thing in your hand? Heaters can be dangerous, you know. You could have been hurt."

Don relaxed a little and grinned. "What were you doing up, anyway? I thought you'd be sleeping."

"I heard you and Dad whispering in the hall. I was coming to see what was going on."

Don looked down at the space heater. "We were planning where to put these. Stan brought over a couple for us to borrow, and we had one in the basement…" He frowned, worried. "This cold spell could last. I should go buy a couple more."

Charlie turned, hand still clutching his t-shirt, and walked slowly back to the bed. He sat on the edge and sighed. "I found a place. They're coming Monday. I may need a new unit. What do you think? Heat pump?"

Don was confused. "What do you mean, you found a place?" He focused on Charlie's hand, again. "You ok?"

Charlie shrugged and took his hand off his t-shirt long enough to point at the desk. "Yellow pages. Wonderful invention." He touched the back of his head. "Ow."

Don leaned over and picked up the space heater. "Stop touching it." He fought his way across the room and found an electrical outlet near Charlie's bed. He plugged in the heater, relieved when it came on as he flipped the switch. He positioned it carefully and then joined Charlie on the edge of the bed. "That gonna be ok?"

Charlie pushed himself back and leaned against the wall, bringing his legs up and behind Don with a series of grunts and hisses. "Perfect. Thanks."

Don sat. It had been several hours since the accident, but he still felt the need to reassure himself of Charlie's health and welfare. He wanted to just sit there a while. "We could have taken care of the furnace. You should be resting."

Charlie smiled. "It's my house. My responsibility. And I turned the pages very slowly, if that makes you feel better."

Don grinned at his brother. Charlie's hand was resting on his sternum, again, and he had a far-away, almost blank look on his face. Don grew concerned, again. "Seriously, Charlie. You need something for pain?"

Charlie didn't answer, and Don's concern rose a notch. He shook Charlie's leg and tried again. "Charlie!"

The younger man's eyes focused on Don. "What? Did I miss something?"

Don indicated the hand over Charlie's heart. "Pain?"

Charlie looked down and seemed surprised to see his own hand. He dropped it to his lap. "It's okay."

Don studied him and began to feel a familiar sense of dread. "You're not doing that P thing in your head, are you?"

Charlie held his gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes to his lap. "Don…we never really talked about that. Calmly, I mean. After." He looked back up. "I know you were upset by what I did those last three months of Mom's illness…"

Don stood, abruptly. "That's done, Charlie."

His voice was brusque, and Charlie was a little taken aback."Is it?", he asked, apprehensively.

Don crossed his arms in front of him. "Charlie, I don't think we should do this."

Charlie's apprehension grew. "But I wanted…"

Don interrupted, quietly. "We won't go there, Charlie. I don't want to talk about this." Charlie just looked at him. His mouth was still open, and he looked so wounded that Don hurried on. "Listen, Buddy, I'm glad you weren't seriously hurt last night, and whatever you need, you let me know." At the end, his voice sounded both firm, and reluctant. "I won't talk about this, though." Charlie looked away, then, and Don saw him swallow. He slid down the wall so that he was lying down, and turned on his side away from Don. He wrapped his arms protectively around himself. Don sighed. "Charlie…"

"I'm tired," came the muffled reply. "Thank-you for the space heater."

Don stood for a moment, and couldn't think of anything else he was willing to say. Apparently, Charlie couldn't, either. When the silence grew uncomfortable, Don whispered a quick "Sleep well," turned, and left the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Charlie was so quiet the rest of the weekend that Alan was starting to get worried. He was moving better on Sunday, and didn't have a fever, but he seemed…subdued. On the other hand, he hadn't tried to escape lunch, and was now eating dinner across the table. Charlie always answered when he was spoken to, also. Alan wondered if he should chalk up the six times he had found his son staring blankly at nothing to what must have been an overwhelming experience, getting blown into a wall like that.

Alan was also a little surprised Don hadn't been by the house since Saturday morning. He had called early Sunday afternoon to check on Charlie, and had sounded relieved when Alan said that he was sleeping on the couch. His eyes narrowed, recalling the conversation as he studied Charlie. The boys were avoiding each other. Well, that probably wasn't fair – Charlie had been here all day. Maybe Don was the one avoiding him, for some reason? He lowered his fork to the table. "Did something happen between you and Don, yesterday?"

Charlie looked at him, startled, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. "What? No. What?"

Alan shuddered a little. "You sound like you did when you first regained consciousness. One-word questions. You're not going to ask me where 'she' is again, are you?"

The spoon clattered to the table and soup splashed on them both. Charlie paled. "What? Who?"

Alan mopped his face with a napkin. "Beats me, son. There was no one here all evening but the three of us. But you wanted to know where 'she' was, as soon as you could talk after the explosion. We had other concerns at the time, so we didn't ask who you meant. Are you all right?"

Charlie used his own napkin to soak up the soup. He studied the table for a long moment, then looked back at his father. "I think…I sort-of…"

A tear dropped out of an eye and Alan nearly panicked. "What?"

Charlie took a deep breath, and said it fast. "I saw Mom."

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Alan sat, stunned. Had his baby been that close to gone, that he had some sort of out-of-body experience? "That's..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't know what it was.

"She seemed happy," Charlie added, awkwardly. He looked down at his soup. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you."

Alan felt his own eyes fill, but blinked the tears back. There would be time for that later. He spoke quietly. "No, son, don't apologize. I'm…just a little surprised."

Charlie stood and carried his bowl to the sink. His back to Alan, he shrugged. "It was probably a dream. I'm sure it had to be a dream."

Alan considered. Finally, he spoke wistfully. "There's a lot to be said for dreams."

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Sunday night, Charlie dreamed of meadows, and butterflies. It had to be the most boring dream of his life. All he did was sit in a grassy meadow, waiting for someone he knew would not be coming, even in his dream. When he awoke, at 3 a.m., he lay for the rest of the night and wondered what to do about Don. He wondered if he had misunderstood his mother's message. It wasn't his own forgiveness he had to worry about. Obviously, it was Don's. By the time he dragged himself out of bed to get ready for school, he had a headache worse than the one he took to bed Friday night. His father took one look at his face over the breakfast table, where Charlie was ignoring a piece of toast, and all but ordered him to stay home.

Charlie tried to sigh, but he did not seem to have enough air in his lungs. So he took a deep breath, instead, and choked out a cough. _That was going to help him make his point_. "I'm fine, Dad, I just didn't sleep too well. My afternoon class has an exam today, the T.A. can handle it. I'll be home early. Consider it a half-day."

Alan wasn't happy. "You need to see your doctor. The one in the ER said you should follow up with your doctor."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I'll call this morning and make an appointment."

"I know you can forgive yourself."

Charlie blinked. Had he just heard that? He couldn't have just heard that. "Um…what?"

This time Alan rolled his eyes. "I said, I don't know how you live with yourself. I was passing your room this morning and it's worse than when you were 12."

Charlie stood and looked around for his backpack. "I know. I'm sorry."

He sounded so sad that Alan actually felt guilty. "Well it's your house, Charlie, I guess you don't have to be sorry. At least you make an effort to maintain order in the common spaces."

Charlie finally found his backpack on the floor at his feet. He shouldered it and regarded Alan again. "Did you say something about my face?"

Alan stood and walked to his son. He planted a hand on his forehead. "No offense, Charlie, but you're a little more distracted than usual this morning." He felt no fever so he dropped his hand in defeat. "Just take it easy, this morning. For your old man."

Charlie smiled and gave Alan's shoulder a squeeze before he walked out the kitchen door.

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By 11, Charlie was glad he had promised to go home early. His first two classes were at opposite ends of the building, and today it felt like opposite ends of the campus. He wasn't that sore – except for the bruise on his chest -- but he was huffing and puffing like a 2-pack-a-day smoker by the time he got where he was going most of the time.

Now, he sat pathetically inactive at his desk, staring at the white board across the room, trying to take deep breaths and wondering if he could ditch his office hours, too. Before he had decided, there was a knock on the mostly-closed door, and it began to swing open. _Guess I'm staying for office hours_, Charlie thought, and looked to see which student was in need. He was surprised to see Don come in, and more surprised when he shut the door behind him.

The FBI agent stood in front of the desk as if he had been called in to the principle's office. "Hi. Do you feel as bad as you look?"

Charlie grinned. "Are you disparaging my visage?"

Don tilted his head. "What?"

Charlie laughed, coughing a little at the end. "Never mind. I'm loopy, I'm so tired. What are you doing here? Something up?"

Don put on his affronted face and moved to sit in a chair facing the desk. "Sometimes I just come to see you around lunchtime. Don't I?"

Charlie leaned back in his chair and held his hands in a "V" in front of his face. "Usually, if you want lunch you call first."

Don shrugged. "I felt badly, the way I left things with you on Saturday. I didn't want you to think I was…angry, or anything." He looked at Charlie. His brother hadn't looked all that great when Don had come in, but now his face was pinched a little in pain and he had his hand on his chest. Don stood quickly. "What's wrong?"

Charlie turned frightened eyes on him. "I- I- don't…I c-can't seem to get enough air…"

Don ripped his cell phone off his belt and Charlie held up a hand in protest. "Don't…I'm seeing m-my doctor t-tomorrow…" He was wheezing, now, and Don didn't even bother arguing with him. He just dialed 9-1-1 for the second time in three days.

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**A/N: Golly. I feel bad. Some people actually dropped OFF my alert list. If you hate it, I don't have to continue. I'll just leave Ch. 1 as a Oneshot and delete the rest...**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Mercy. I didn't mean to send anyone running for bottles of Prozac. (There won't be enough for all of us.) Here is an extra chapter today for those of you who have been so kind and loyal.**

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**Chapter 5**

Three hours later, Don sat beside Charlie's bed in the trauma bay. A frightening-looking tube was coming out of his chest, taped to his skin – which at least had some color, again.

Don was waiting either for Charlie to wake up, in which case he would rip him a new one for not taking care of himself; or, for his father to show up, in which case Don would collapse on him like a child. He hoped his father wouldn't do something reckless on the way here – he had hated leaving a message like that on the house phone, but Alan had apparently taken off without his cell, again. This time it was answered by another volunteer at the homeless shelter, who said Alan had just left – without his phone -- after helping serve lunch. Don almost hadn't called the house and left the message. The doctor had said Charlie would be released in a few hours, if a second x-ray showed no recurrence of the pneumothorax…. Don had been listening to Charlie breathe for a while, though, and even with the oxygen and the chest tube it sounded labored. Don was afraid the air was building up around Charlie's lung again, and it would collapse again, and…he just felt the need for some back-up.

"Stop it."

Don was pulled roughly out of his thoughts by Charlie's raspy voice. He looked up from his hands quickly and saw dark eyes studying him. He leaned forward a little. "What? Stop what, Buddy? Do you need me to call the doctor?"

Don had half-stood before he heard Charlie's answer. "Stop…obsessing. You heard the doctor. I'll be fine. You didn't call Dad, did you?"

Don sank in the chair again and ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Hell, yes, Charlie. To both questions. I heard the doctor say that pressure has slowly been building up around your lung since Friday night. Why didn't you say something?"

Charlie looked appropriately guilty. "That doctor on Friday night said I would be sore…and there's a bruise, so I thought that was all it was. Until I couldn't breathe."

Don blanched, recalling the ten terrifying minutes in Charlie's office, listening to him wheeze, waiting for the ambulance. Of course, that had been nothing compared to the five minutes in the ambulance when the wheezes grew farther and farther apart, even with the oxygen, and eventually stopped. The trauma surgeon at the hospital had instructed the paramedics to "tube him". When an EMT had taken a sharp scalpel out of a kit and sliced into his brother's chest at 80 miles per hour, Don had nearly thrown up. Charlie closed his eyes and winced, and Don noticed. "Dammit Charlie," he said, gruffly. "Take the stupid morphine."

His brother opened his eyes again. They seemed decidedly moister. "Hate that stuff," he whispered. The eyes drifted shut almost immediately and a hand clutched at the thin sheet over him. "Maybe something else?"

Don stood so quickly he got a little dizzy. He didn't even speak to Charlie again, but headed for the nearest nurse. If Charlie was admitting he needed _anything_ for pain, the world was about to end. He had almost reached her when the doctor who had been treating Charlie rounded a corner, and Don changed his trajectory a little, and quickened his pace. He skidded to a stop in front of the man, blocking his further progress. "My brother is in pain."

The doctor lifted his eyebrows. "I'm not surprised. I offered him morphine. You heard him refuse. Refused Demoral, too."

"I think he may have reconsidered on that last one."

The doctor grinned a little and waited for Don to move. When he didn't, the man looked at him kindly. "Is it all right if I examine him? It's about time to send him down for his second set of x-rays."

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Ten minutes later, Charlie's mind was embracing the Demoral and his body was on its way to x-ray. Don stepped out of the trauma bay long enough to try the house, again. Alan answered in a rush of breath. "Hello? Don?"

"Yeah."

"I just played the machine, I've been home for half an hour wondering where Charlie was. He said he was coming home early…" His father was whining a little, and then descended into absolute panic. "I can't find my damn keys. I'm coming, I just can't find my damn keys!"

_Thank God_, Don thought. "Wait, Dad, just take a breath…Charlie's in x-ray right now, and the doc says if the films look good, he'll let Charlie go home." He tried not to sound as opposed to that as he was. He had all-but accused the man of malpractice. This was his brother they were talking about kicking loose, here. The hospital had already done that once, and look what happened! "You should probably stay there. We could end up passing on the freeway."

Alan was silent. Don waited. Finally, a distrustful "Are you telling me the truth?"

Don tried not to be offended. "Yes, of course I am! This guy, this Dr. Peterson, he just listened to his lungs and gave him a hit of Demerol and said things sounded good. He expects the x-rays to confirm that the lung has reinflated and air flow is good."

Don heard the panic creep back into Alan's voice. "Reinflated? Lung has REINFLATED? Good night, Donnie, what are you talking about? The message just said Charlie was having difficulty breathing!"

Oops. Forgot that. Don honestly couldn't remember what he said on the message. "Look, I'll tell you the details when we get there. Some…tension pneumo thing…" Don wasn't sure, but he thought he could actually hear Alan squeezing the phone receiver.

Finally his father sighed. "You call me. Either way. If you're going to head home, or it they decide to keep him longer."

"I will, Dad. I should get back in. I want to be there when he gets back."

"Of course. I'll keep looking for my damn keys, just in case."

Don actually smiled a little. "Dad. Have you checked your pockets?"

Alan snorted in impatience. "Don't you start treating me as if…" The sentence suddenly cut off. In another second, Don barely heard a stifled, "Oh…I could have sworn that was the first place I looked."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Dr. Peterson had Charlie's chest tube pulled and three stitches in the incision before Don really accepted what was happening. He swore to all that was holy, if Charlie had problems later and had to come back here again, heads would roll.

The doctor snapped off his gloves and started speaking to Don while a nurse dressed the incision on Charlie's side. "That was a little more rugged than most chest tube incisions. Back of the ambulance and all that. Most only take one or two stitches – this will leave a small scar, I'm afraid."

"Scars are nothing. We can handle scars. But if Charlie stops breathing again…"

"He won't, Mr. Eppes," the doctor assured him again. "The incision will be painful for a few days, so I'll write a scrip for Vicodin and give you a packet containing a few pills with the discharge papers. They should last until you fill the prescription." He grinned ruefully. "Or they could last forever, knowing your brother's distaste for pain medication."

"Hey," Don heard Charlie say, apparently – hopefully – to the nurse still working on him. "You really are beautiful. Do you like strawberry ice cream?"

She laughed. "Don't have much of a tolerance for pain meds, do you? And yes, I do."

Don watched Charlie grin up at her. "I'm weak. Weak-kneed. Blown over by brunettes."

Don rolled his eyes. If he didn't get Charlie out of here soon, the poor bastard would be engaged.

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Charlie continued to flirt shamelessly with the nurse until she helped Don get him in the passenger seat of the SUV. Don buckled him in and heard Charlie still talking over his shoulder. "My name is Chuck," he said, and the seat belt slipped out of Don's hand, he was so surprised. He shook his head and retrieved the belt, leaned over to try again. "I your name can have I?"

Don straightened and turned to look apologetically at the nurse. His brother was stoned on Demoral, of all things. "He doesn't get out much," he shrugged.

She laughed. "Not a problem. They never remember me later, don't worry." She looked at Charlie. "Amanda," she said.

He grinned goofily. "That rhymes with panda. Didjou know thish country ish tryin' to mate pandas?"

Checking first to make sure Charlie was safely tucked inside, Don slammed the door in his face. It was for his brother's own good.

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He hadn't meant to slam the door on Charlie's happiness.

Yet before Don even got his own belt buckled, the brooding silence was back, Charlie staring morosely out the window in front of him. To add increased pressure to Don's already frayed nerves, they hit six-o-clock traffic on the freeway, and there was a pile-up that shut down two lanes. After it had taken 40 minutes to drive five miles, Don flipped open his phone again and called Alan, assuring him that they were on their way. His father had seemed reluctant to believe him again, and Don was starting to wonder how much he lied to the man – and how successful he had been at it. Charlie was asleep in the passenger seat now, head leaning against the side window, and Don almost had to wake him up to talk to his Dad before Alan finally accepted what he was saying.

Don flipped the phone shut and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. There was a sudden rush in traffic, and he made seven miles in only 20 more minutes. At a standstill again, he glanced at his watch. He couldn't believe they had left the hospital over an hour ago.

"You never finished," Charlie suddenly said, and Don started. Charlie's head was still leaning against the window, and Don hadn't even realized he was awake.

"Hey. How are you feeling?"

"Stupid," Charlie answered, and Don grinned. Of all the possible answers, that was probably the best. They'd been stuck in traffic for so long, Charlie was starting to sober up.

Might as well attempt a conversation. A man could only blow the horn so many times. "Finished what?"

Charlie lifted his head. "What you were saying, in my office."

Don tried to remember what they had been talking about. Had that just been today? Then, he remembered. Mom, sort-of. "Oh. That." He hedged. "I was done. I just didn't want you to think I was angry."

Charlie spoke like a frightened child. "I know you were angry at me…for hurting Mom."

Don sighed, impatient with the hold-up and unwilling to have this conversation. "Charlie, I said I don't want to talk about that. It's over.You need to let it go."

Charlie turned his head towards him, and Don could see that he was surprised. "I do?" He turned away again, looked out the front window. "You're falling behind," he noted, and Don quickly closed the gap between him and the car full of kids in front of him.

"I just don't want it always there between us," Charlie said. "Unacknowledged. Like an elephant in the living room." Don didn't answer. Charlie took a breath, hand reaching for the place in his side where the tube had been. "I don't want to drag it out any more. I want to let it go…I'm just not convinced I can do that as long as you are angry with me. As long as you don't understand why I did it."

Don laid on the horn again, for absolutely no reason – except it kept him from saying something to Charlie he would regret. He had noted the hand creeping to Charlie's side, too. "Fine. We'll do it tomorrow. The day after. Don't talk so much."

Charlie dropped his hand and leaned his head on the window again. In profile, he looked almost as sad as Don had ever seen him. Damn. He was going to have to talk. "Look, I know why you did it, okay? It wasn't easy for any of us, seeing her that way."

The car behind Don honked and he jolted forward another inch. Charlie raised his head, again. "That wasn't it. Not completely, anyway. I mean sure, that could have been part of it…I was tired, Don. Nothing was making any sense. Dad and I had been watching Mom go downhill for almost two years already before you came home."

Don stiffened. "Neither one of you asked me to come, before then."

Charlie looked at him and rushed to reassure him. "No, Don, please. Don't get defensive. You're right, we didn't – and I'm not saying now that you should have figured it out on your own. I'm just trying to explain…explain that I didn't just go off the deep end overnight."

Don gripped the steering wheel and reluctantly considered that. Had he not given Charlie any kind of understanding at all over this?

Charlie went on – and so did the SUV, almost approaching 20 miles per hour this time, for nearly a quarter of a mile. "It's just that I know now how ridiculous this will sound, but then, it all made sense."

Don made a noncommittal grunt.

"Okay. First, I wanted the money."

Don took his eyes off the road and looked at Charlie for a second; he hadn't been expecting that one. "What money?"

"The prize, for solving one of the seven unsolveable problems as defined by the Clay Mathematics Institute. Solve one, and it's a million dollars. I thought I had the best chance with 'P vs. NP'."

Don looked away and gripped the wheel harder. So help him, if Charlie had done that to their mother over money…Don would kick him out of the SUV and make him walk the rest of the way home. He'd probably get there sooner that way anyway.

Charlie interrupted his thoughts. "I thought with a million dollars, I could buy Mom a second chance. Her insurance was good and everything, but insurance won't pay for things they consider experimental. I was convinced I could take her to Mexico, or Europe, or damned Antarctica or somewhere, and fix everything. If I had the money."

Don's grip loosened. Oh. He hadn't expected that, either. Oh. He hadn't quite gotten past "Oh" yet when Charlie went on. "Then, the longer I worked at it, the more tired I got, the less sense everything made. I thought if I could do it, if I could use the years of nurturing and education Mom and Dad gave me, God would see. He would see that she was a good person, and that she had done a good job with me. She helped create a genius so astronomical he could solve 'P vs. NP'. God would see that power in her, and He wouldn't take her so soon. He would see that the world needed her longer. He would see that I needed her longer."

"Shit," Don breathed, giving the SUV some gas. He could finally see the sign for their exit; it was coming up in another mile.

"Yeah," Charlie agreed. "I told you it wouldn't make sense. When you came out to the garage, and told me she was gone, it all came crashing down on me. I knew there was no reason to try, anymore."

"I remember," Don whispered. "You stared at me for a full minute, never said a word, walked into the house and slept for 30 hours."

"I'm sorry," Charlie said, miserable.

"Me too," Don answered, as unhappy as his brother.

They had finally reached their exit, and they were silent the rest of the way home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Sitting in the driveway of Charlie's house, Don turned the key off in the ignition of the SUV and heard Charlie reaching for his door handle. He put a restraining hand on his arm. "Wait," he said. He hadn't meant for that to sound like a command, but it did.

"I've got it," Charlie answered quietly. "I can do it."

"That's not what I mean," Don countered. "I want to talk, now." Charlie was silent, staring out the front window, looking a little frightened. Don pushed ahead. "You're right, Charlie, but only half right. Sure, I was angry because I could see that your withdrawal was hurting Mom. The two of you were always so close, and all of a sudden you can't spare five minutes for someone who's lying in a house dying, 25 feet away."

"Please don't say that," Charlie sniffed. He backhanded a tear off his check and then let his hand rest on his side, where the chest tube had been.

Don tried to reassure him and offer him a way out. "I'm not, not anymore. You were right to explain where your head was at to me, I didn't really get it. Now, I'm just doing the same. Tell me if this is too much, right now. We can do this later."

Charlie shook his head. "It's been too long already. Go on."

Don shifted in the seat so that he more fully faced Charlie, and inhaled a deep breath. "Okay. Since your accident Friday night, Charlie, how have I been handling things?"

Charlie seemed to grin a little in the growing dusk. "I think 'crazed' would describe it well."

Don smiled, too. "Exactly. I hate seeing you hurt, Charlie, I always have. It makes me crazy. Feel crazy, do crazy things, say crazy things. When Mom was dying, I wasn't just angry about what you were doing to her. I hated seeing what you were doing to yourself. I hated that you were denying yourself time with her that you would never get back, and I hated knowing what that would do to you, once you figured it out. You weren't the enemy just because you were hurting my mother, Charlie. You were hurting my brother, too. That's why I haven't wanted to talk about it; I haven't wanted to help you prolong that pain."

Charlie's hands had dropped to his lap and were clasped together tightly. "Do you forgive me?" he whispered.

Don reached across the SUV and grasped the back of Charlie's neck. "I'll go you one better, Buddy," he said, massaging gently. "I understand you. Can you offer me the same? Can we bury this, now?"

Charlie turned to look at him and nodded his head, but did not speak. One hand slowly crept toward his bandaged side, again.

The two of them sat in companionable silence for so long that Don felt Charlie shiver a little, and started to feel guilty. He should get the kid in the house. "I'm surprised Dad hasn't bolted out here to see what's going on," he remarked.

Charlie grinned at him. "He's been standing at the kitchen window for at least 10 minutes."

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Alan wanted to pace, but that would mean giving up his place at the window. What were his sons doing out there? He wanted to race out and take matters into his own hands, but something kept stopping him. Don had gotten Charlie all of the way here, he should be able to get him into the house safely. Besides, it looked like their lips were moving. Don even appeared to be touching Charlie.

Alan looked up at the ceiling. "Good Lord, Margaret," he breathed. "I think the boys might be talking."

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Don finally deposited Charlie in the space-heater-warmed kitchen, directly in front of Alan. "Be careful, Dad," he warned. "I think his side is a little sore."

Alan glared at him and wrapped Charlie in a soft embrace anyway. Once he had his arms around him, he couldn't seem to stop, and his squeeze tightened until he heard a small grunt. He pulled back quickly. "I'm sorry. You're all-right? No more surprises?"

Charlie smiled tiredly. "I'm supposed to let my personal physician check me out every morning on the way to school. He has x-ray facilities there and he can keep an eye on things. I've got the first appointment every morning for the rest of the week. Dr. Peterson set it up while I was at the ER."

Alan frowned. "You think you're going to school tomorrow? Or any more this week? You're prepared to take me on over that?"

Charlie shrugged. "Actually, no. When I get upstairs I'll call the Division Chair and see what we can work out."

Don and Alan were both a little taken aback. It wasn't like Charlie to give in so easily. Of course, Don remembered, Charlie seemed to have adopted a new honesty policy, today.

Alan recovered first. "Well, I have the space heater on in your room. It should be nice and warm now, if you want to go up. I'll heat up some soup and bring it up later."

"I thought I had a furnace guy coming, today."

Alan winked at Don over Charlie's shoulder. "Yes. There's his bid, on the kitchen table. He says that they can do it this week, if you decide to go for it."

Charlie approached the table slowly, and looked down at it so forlornly that Don finally took pity on him. He leaned over and retrieved the paper from the center of the table, where it was anchored by a salt shaker. He handed it to Charlie. His brother's eyes widened as he studied first one side, then the other. He looked up at his father. "Should I get another bid?"

Alan shrugged. "Competing bids are never a bad idea, Charlie, but they're all going to be in this ballpark. Why do you think I didn't replace the furnace with a heat pump years ago? You probably should have had your real estate agent ask about things like that."

Charlie looked back at the paper. "I may have to cash out a CD."

Don started. "You have CDs?", he asked.

"That's one form of investment I have, yes." Charlie dropped the paper on the table and looked at Don. "Don't worry -- you're the beneficiary. After all, thanks to you. I made almost a hundred thousand dollars off the FBI just last year."

Don's mouth gaped. "How the hell much do we pay consultants?"

Charlie grinned. "Not nearly what we're worth. If I were in this for the money, I would work exclusively with the NSA."

Alan snorted behind them. "You do still occasionally teach, correct?"

Charlie took his hand off his side long enough to run it through his hair."That's right. I have to go call Dr. Endicott about my schedule this week." He started for the door that led into the dining room, and the stairs beyond, but paused beside Don long enough to drag him into an awkward, sideways hug. "Thanks, Donnie," he whispered into his ear. "I love you." Don barely had time to squeeze back, didn't have time to say anything in return. He was busy, memorizing the moment.

Don wanted to carry it with him forever.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Alan gave Charlie a few minutes alone upstairs, but finally couldn't stop himself and went up to check on him. When he came back to the kitchen a few minutes later, Don had the coffee ready and sat at the table drinking slowly.

Alan poured a cup and joined him. He sighed, but he was grinning. "He's already called the guy back, on his home phone. We're getting a new heat pump tomorrow afternoon."

Don finished swallowing and smiled. "Good. That means a warm spell is on the way."

Alan chuckled, making bubbles on the surface of the coffee. He sipped, looking at Don over the rim of the cup. He swallowed, and put it down. "What were you two doing in the SUV so long? It looked like you were – talking?"

Don set his own mug carefully on the table. "All the way home. Through the traffic jam and everything."

"What about, if I may ask?"

"Mom. P vs. NP. There were some things neither of us realized about the other, you know?"

Alan nodded. "Well, it was easier to be angry. If focused the overwhelming emotion of the time."

Don tilted his head. "So you were angry, too?"

Alan confessed. "A little. Confused, mostly. But your mother saw that, and she asked me to give it up. She said that I had to be free to love Charlie without resentment, that he would need that, when she was gone."

Don stirred his coffee absently. There was no need to stir it, since it was black. "I wonder why she didn't say anything to me." He sounded a little wounded.

Alan looked across at his oldest. "She said things about you. All the time. Things about the two of you, too."

Don met his gaze, and was silent.

Alan smiled. "She said no set of brothers ever had less in common, but more in their hearts for each other. She said that neither of you would let this come between you for long, and you'd work it out together." He shook his head and lifted the mug of coffee, again. "I confess, I was beginning to wonder about that opinion." He enjoyed another sip of the warm liquid, lowered the mug and watched Don stare at the table. "Did he tell you that he saw her?"

Don's head jerked up. "What?"

Alan grimaced a little. "Apparently not. Friday night, when he was unconscious, he was with her. In a dream, or something. He didn't tell me many details…just that she looks happy." His own voice threatened to break at the end and he buried his face in the coffee again.

Don looked toward the ceiling. "And she sent him back to live with us?"

Alan shrugged. "Well, I don't know if it was really that…that supernatural, Don. His heart never stopped. Maybe it was really only a dream."

Don lowered his gaze and met his father's eyes again. "Well, she was right about one thing. Charlie and I have worked it out between ourselves, finally. We're both ready to move ahead, now."

Alan smiled. "She was right about another, as well. No two brothers have more for each other in their hearts."

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Charlie's division chair arranged to cover him for the remainder of the week, and after two successful doctor's visits, Alan finally agreed to attend his book club on Wednesday evening. He was reluctant, but Charlie was an adult. He had been following doctor's orders, and getting better every day. He had taken the week off, and was actually resting. Alan had retrieved his cell phone from the homeless shelter and recharged it, and had it safely tucked in his pocket. He would be gone two hours, tops. Still, he stood hesitantly over Charlie's sleeping form on the couch for quite some time before he could force himself out the door.

After he did, Charlie waited a few minutes after he heard the car leave the driveway. Then, before he could change his mind, he bolted for his own car.

Twenty-five minutes later – thank God there had not been a traffic jam like there had been Monday evening – Charlie stood uncertainly in the trauma bay of the ER, nervously shifting the cold cup from the "Sonic" drive thru from one hand to the other, waiting. He waited uncertainly for her to answer her page. Of course when she came, he was facing the wrong direction.

"Chuck." She sounded concerned, behind him. "Have you had more problems? Would you like to see a doctor?"

He turned around and unceremoniously thrust the cup out to her. "N-No," he stammered. "I'd like to see you."

Amanda accepted the cup and peered at it. "What is this?"

Charlie was starting to wish the furnace had driven him vertically through the floor. "S-Strawberry milkshake. Did I remember that right?"

She smiled, and tilted her head a little. "Um….yes….Thanks?"

He ran his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. This was stupid. I mean, I don't even know if you're married, or anything."

The milkshake was thick, and she had to draw hard on the straw to get the courage off the bottom, where they kept it. She swallowed. "No, I'm not, Chuck. I was with someone for several years, and we broke it off about 8 months ago. He's married to someone else, now…and I'm currently unattached."

Charlie risked a small smile. "The woman I was sort-of thinking about maybe seeing moved to Boston last summer."

She laughed. "Sort-of thinking about maybe?"

He reddened a little. "It was complicated. We worked together for a while, and I was her superior…anyway, my name is really Charlie."

Amanda worked a while on the milkshake again. She closed her eyes, savoring it, and when she opened them again, they were twinkling. "I know. I heard your brother talking to you enough to know that. I thought maybe you preferred Chuck, since that's how you introduced yourself."

Charlie shrugged. "Demoral," he explained. "I hate Chuck. Don't call me Chuck."

She grinned over the milkshake cup. "Well, Charlie-not-Chuck, I actually have my dinner break in half an hour. Maybe you'd like to stay and go to the cafeteria with me? We can talk more about pandas."

Charlie's smile lit up the trauma bay.

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FINIS

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**A/N: This was always intended to be a brief story, so please don't think I am abbreviating it because of my earlier meltdown. I believe this resolves a largely unexplored issue between the brothers, and also leaves me a lot of room for those sequels I like so much. I am facing some RL issues that may slow me down for a time, but I assure you that several stories are already started, and to quote my pal Arnie, "I'll be back". (You can regard that as a promise, or a threat. Whichever.) Thanks again to my readers!**


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